


A (Kind-Of) Love

by o0katiekins0o



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk!Molly, F/M, Firefly References, Friends to Lovers, Molly takes no shit, Post HLV, Star Trek References, The X-Files References, a little cracky, sci-fi nerd Molly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0katiekins0o/pseuds/o0katiekins0o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an easy sort of feeling, this thing that they have. He's not in love, it's just a kind-of love and she kind-of loves him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the very first Sherlolly I ever wrote (I mean technically, I had a little drabble I dribbled on a little piece of paper and lost it but this is the first coherent Sherlolly I ever wrote.) I wrote it right after watching S3 and Sherlollied so hard the neighbors could feel it.

Molly threw her keys on the end table by the door to her flat and kicked her shoes off in the corner with an audible breath of relief. After a long day on her feet she just wanted to curl up on her sofa with a nice cuppa- "Holy Shit!" She swore taking in the sight of her sitting room which had been turned inside out.

Her bookshelves and DVD organiser had been up-ended, the cushions had been thrown off her settee which was tipped over on it's back revealing how long it hand been since she'd last vacuumed thoroughly, her kitchen cupboards were thrown open and her refrigerator had been given the same treatment. She hastily shut it and walked further into her flat to assess any additional damage. To her great relief nothing seemed to be broken. She heard the rustle of movement coming from her bed room and reached for the pry bar she kept in the hall closet. She stalked silently in her stockinged feet toward the source of the noise, raising the pry bar she gently nudged her bedroom door open further as it was already ajar, she saw a figure dressed in black, crouched inside her closet grunting and rummaging hastily through the objects on the floor.

She raised the pry bar behind her and with a single swift movement caught the intruder in the back with a deft whack. He groaned loudly and fell backward, head landing between her feet. Molly immediately recognized her intruder who continued to groan and wince, flecks of pain coloring his all too familiar blue-green eyes. "God damn it, Sherlock!" She immediately dropped to a deep squat, laying the pry bar next to her, to help lift him, hauling him up to a sitting position on the floor. He groaned again"Why did you hit me!?" 

"I thought you were a burglar, moron! How did you get in? The door was still locked." 

"Fire escape", he wheezed, "didn't want to bother with picking the lock, I thought I'd only be a minute." 

"Glad that worked out so well for you. What did you expect would happen, you wrecked my flat?!" 

"Hardly! Your organizational skills are somewhat lacking, Molly." 

Molly closed her eyes, breathing deeply, counting backward from ten while pinching the bridge of her nose "Why. Are. You. Here?" She enunciated each word carefully trying to suppress the flood of rage boiling to the surface. 

"I was looking for the rest of this." He tossed a thick book shaped object at her that she immediately recognized as the boxed set to "Firefly" she had lent him the previous day.   
Case loads had been slow, it was summer and the number of crimes worth Sherlock's time were practically nil. Even the criminal element didn't seem to be immune to the positive effects of sunshine and fair winds. Everyone was working extra hard to find distractions to keep Sherlock too busy for shooting guns and shooting up. Since Mary had the baby, John was not often available, Mrs. Hudson usually took the afternoon shift watching terrible day time telly and dragging him with her to the shops. Greg Lestrade would take Sherlock on his days off which weren't many. Summer brought an influx of different types of crimes: bar fights, date rapes, tourist muggings. And although they didn't require much in terms of deductive reasoning to solve, they still took up quite a lot of his time.

Thus the bulk of the responsibility had fallen on Molly. Honestly, it was exhausting, even moreso than assisting him in solving crimes, if you could believe. Molly felt a little guilty that she half hoped a serial killer would crop up and begin a hideous killing spree. The resultant post-mortems would be less traumatic for her than babysitting Sherlock had been.   
She picked up the boxed set with a sigh. "There is no second season, Sherlock, it was cancelled after this."

"But that's stupid."

"Tell me about it." 

"No, I mean, it's stupid, even considering the low median intelligence of... normal people." He gestured casually toward Molly who reminded herself not to take offense. 

"Well you're the world's only consulting detective and the genius that thought breaking into my flat, and turning it over was a better idea than, I don't know, googling it." 

Sherlock made a sound in the back of his throat indicating disgust, "And wade through all the tedious fanboy nonsense? I maintain that this was the less painful alternative."

He arched his back to assess the damage and groaned loudly. Molly sighed again, "Take off your shirt, let's have a look." He obediently unbuttoned his shirt and she had to help him slide it off his arms. She crouched down to her knees to give it a proper examination. There was a clearly defined red stripe going horizontally across his back and he inhaled sharply as she gently prodded his spine and shoulders to feel for any fractures. His skin felt somewhat spongey but everything seemed to be in tact. "Well, Mr. Holmes, you'll have a wicked looking bruise but I'm fairly confident you'll live." He scowled. "You'll need to sleep on your stomach until the tenderness subsides, doctor's orders."   
"You're a pathologist, Molly." He corrected her with a pointed look.

"You want to go there? I still have the pry bar..."

Sherlock curled his lips shut, scowling harder. 

"Now then, up you get." Molly's voice was strained as she draped one of his arms across her shoulders and helped him to his feet. "I was going to make a pot of tea before-"

"Committing grievous bodily harm..."

"Before I thought I was going to have to defend myself from a dangerous intruder." she corrected "Would you care for a cup before you put all my things back where they go?" 

"I'm injured!" He protested.

"Oh get down off your cross, you big baby!" She helped him limp toward her dinette and eased him into a chair. He gave an exaggerated moan as she lowered him into the seat. "Uncomfortable? I would put you on the settee but someone turned it over." He rolled his eyes and growled. "Oh hush, you sound constipated." She chuckled as she went to her room to get the pry bar and replace it in the hallway closet where she had retrieved it initially. Then strolling back into her kitchen to put the kettle on. When it finished she slid a steaming mug toward him across the table. Molly had reached her limit of creative ideas to occupy Sherlock's time and had turned to her vast collection of Science Fiction DVDs, encouraging him to watch, engaging him in discussions about them. Much to her surprise he took to the activity with unusual gusto that Molly found gratifying.  
"So you enjoyed it, I take?" She initiated sitting beside him with her own mug.

"It was... Less tedious than the last series you put me through, what was it?"

"The X-Files." 

"That's the one. US Federal Agents investigating voodoo and UFO sightings, ridiculous!" 

"You didn't even give it a fair shot!"

"I certainly gave it more time that it deserved. It's specious lunacy, indulging conspiracy theorist fantasy. That sort of thing is for Anderson and his lot of unwashed miscreants."

"OK, Sculley." Molly giggled emptying her mug, pushing away from the table and walking to her bedroom to change out of her work clothes.

"I don't understand the appeal science fiction has for so many real scientists. Isn't there enough mystery to be had in reality?" 

"Apparently not", Molly called from her bedroom the sound of fabric rustling could be heard as she removed her slacks and blouse. "And anyway, it's not about mystery, really is it? It's speculation. What life would be like if certain things were true. It's about experiences and the human condition and- ugh! SHERLOCK!"   
Apparently she had found the empty biscuit sleeves and crisp packets in her closet leftover from his intrusion.

"Breaking and entering give you a snack attack?" She asked walking out of her room with an arm load of rubbish from his cupboard raid. She was wearing yoga pants, striped socks and a rather worn looking black t-shirt with writing across the chest obscured by her cargo. He ignored that comment as she walked past him to tip it in the bin. 

"The human condition" he repeated with a huff, "nauseating." With her arms free he was able to see that her shirt read in neon green type "The Truth is Out There". He rolled his eyes and smirked. She had worn it as a playful jab at him.  
He took the final gulp from his mug and she took it from his hand before he had even lowered it from his mouth.

"Break's over. Fix my couch." 

Sherlock moaned "I'm in pain!" 

"And I was nice enough not to toss you out on your arse, fix my couch and you can sit on it." She said with mock sympathy.

"When did you start doing yoga?" He redirected. 

"Couch!" She barked. He grumbled but obeyed, nevertheless. 

"Namaste" he replied passively bending down to flip her settee back on it's legs with a groan. He smashed the cushions back into place before flopping down on it and stretching out. 

"What do you fancy? Chinese or Indian?" She asked from the kitchen sorting through the takeout menus in her kitchen junk drawer.

"Pizza. Margherita. Thin crust." He clipped.

"Please and thank you?" Molly added. 

"Yes. If you like." He waved vaguely. She took the landline down from the wall and began dialling the appropriate numbers to order their supper. 

"Why are humans so fascinated with their own condition? It's rather conceited." 

"You're one to talk- yes I'd like to make an order for delivery." Her last sentence spoken into the phone.

"Exploration of the human condition, in my observation, is simply a lofty way of saying 'wallowing in self-pity'."  

"The pizza alone isn't a large enough order for delivery, want cinnamon sticks?" 

"It's not cinnamon, it's cinnamon cassia!" 

"Do you sell lager? Perfect, And a case of lager then, please. Great, thank you." She hung up the phone and turned back toward her sitting room. Looking down at Sherlock sprawled out on her sofa arm dramatically tossed over his face, mouth set in a pathetic pout. "I think I'm observing some self pity." She grinned hands on her waist reproachfully. He looked up at her from under his arm his eyes narrowed at her. 

"I think I liked you better before Tom ruined you, you're so cynical now." 

"Do you mind? I'd like to sit too." She said completely side-stepping his barb.

"If you must" he lifted up just high enough for her to slide underneath him and he placed his head in her lap. Such was the nature of their relationship at this point. She had loved him from afar, put him on a pedestal was at his every beck and call, saved his life and left her fiancee- all for this man. And it was never better than when she gave up all her delusions and accepted him for what he was, offering only what she knew he would take: her companionship. She was happier with him now than she knew she could be. 

Old Molly would have blushed and squeaked and acquiesced silently to this rather terrible intrusion into her home. New Molly held him accountable, exchanged barb for barb but accepted him nonetheless. And look what it got her-a half naked Sherlock comfortably nestled into her lap. Old Molly couldn't have even imagined. "And what's so wrong with exploring one's own condition? Science Fiction has historically been the frame by which great thinkers have safely posited new challenges to the status quo. A sort of quiet social engineering." Molly continued curling a tendril of Sherlock's dark hair around her fingers absent-mindedly.

"Great thinkers?" Sherlock snorted in haughty derision. "L. Ron Hubbard was a science fiction author." 

"Yes" she agreed "but he did well for himself, he left behind a legacy, vast wealth, a huge following."-

"Of drones."

"I didn't say it wasn't creepy, bad example. Fair point. But ok, good example: Gene Roddenberry. Creator of Star Trek. He looked upon his role in the world of science fiction with a sense of responsibility. Breaking barriers, challenging people to think more critically to look at others more openly, and to not fear the future. His characters were a diverse mix of races and nationalities working together for the common goal of exploration, further expansion of the mind, social justice. What is a nobler pursuit than that?" Caught up in her reverie, she failed to notice Sherlock staring at her, his shapely mouth quirked into a half grin, his eyes were sparkling and warm.

"What could be nobler indeed?..."

She looked down at him. "Oh stop preening, you tit!" They both laughed in unison until the laughter passed. Sherlock didn't break his gaze but looked lost in thought.

"What is it?" She asked.

"It's just" he began "well, this is nice. Moments like these I am grateful that you're my. Well, my...friend...thing."

Molly beamed. "I'm grateful to be your 'friend thing' too." She replied with a smile. "Some days more than others" she added while taking in the state of her flat.

"I said I'm sorry!"

"No you didn't!"

"Oh well... I am. But you did hit me with a pry bar."

"That was a long time coming, admit it." Molly could feel the vibrato of his rich laugh in her hands that had found themselves completely tangled in his hair, smoothing her lithe fingers over his scalp meditatively.

"That's fair." He agreed.

"And for what it's worth, I'm sorry too."  She peered down at him mischievously "well, mostly sorry."

They both laughed again. Molly leaned over the armrest searching for the remote control, feeling around for it with one hand, the other still in Sherlock's hair. After a moment of being unsuccessful Sherlock rolled forward, picking it up and handing it back to her. It came on with a click and they were silent as she surfed through each channel.

She just wanted to hold this space. Him quietly submitting to her affection, breaking the silence occasionally to make a comment about something on the telly. She felt one of his arms slide under her leg, looping it around to the top of her thigh to link with his other arm as he snuggled further into the couch.

_This is a kind of love_ , she thought, _I can be happy with only this._ Her contemplation was interrupted by a rap on her door.

"Hmm, left handed. Wearing new shoes going by the creaking and the way he shifts his feet, not broken in yet. Probably a gift otherwise he wouldn't have worn them to work before breaking them in, wanted to show the giver that he appreciates them."

"Bull shit!" Molly called.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Loser buys?"

"You're on." She grinned. They both get up from the sofa, this time Sherlock forgot to groan as he rose.

_I knew it, faker_.

They both walk together toward the door. Molly opened it to reveal a young woman in her late teens carrying their order. She was dressed in a hoodie and skinny jeans, distinct chav style. Molly leaned against the door jam and peered down at her feet, she was wearing wedge heels that looked like high top sneakers. "Ooh cute shoes!" Molly feigned enthusiasm.

"Fanks!" The young girl smiled brightly, she was wearing a lipstick of the most appalling pink, her voice a heavy cockney "just bought them this mornin' been eyein' em for weeks!"

"Good on you!" Molly said "they're very... fashionable."  

"I know, right?! It's gonna be 17.56" Molly looked at Sherlock, "That's you" she slapped him on the back, playfully and he winced, grumbling through gritted teeth.

The delivery girl visibly scanned shirtless Sherlock and bit her lip,"you lot up to anyfin' fun tonight?" She asked suggestively.

"Yes. Discussing the merits of science fiction as a tool of social engineering. Here's 20 quid. Good night." He took the pizza and beer, handed her the money and turned to close the door "Wait! Don't you want your..."

"No."

"Change?" she didn't get a chance to say as he slammed the door.

He turned to Molly who was back at her original place on the sofa, hand over her mouth, face red from holding in her laughter. "Oh shut up!" Sherlock clipped and Molly lost it, throwing her head back, chest heaving from laughter. "Oh DO shut up!" He repeated with unguarded exasperation.

"Even the great Sherlock Holmes can't win them all!" He dropped the pizza on the coffee table and the beer at her feet. She was still shaking gently with laughter when he returned to his position of his head in her lap. "I think my favorite part was when she hit on you." He glowered. "Oh don't sulk!" She said, her peals of laughter ending in a soft "ahh!" Swiping little tears from the corners of her eyes. She felt him nestle his head in her lap deeper as if he was searching for her hands once more, she took his cue and returned them to his hair. Sensing him pouting. She turned him by his chin to look at her

"Don't be that way, we're having a nice time!" She admonished with unabashed endearment, hunching over to kiss his hairline tenderly, her long hair stroking the sides of his angular face. He closed his eyes, and received it without protest. "I nearly forgot!" Molly clasped her hand to her forehead. Sherlock looked up at her with curiosity. "There's a Firefly movie!" He smiled and responded,

"Shiny." He smiled, knowing she would be pleased at his reference.

"Not so much, you'll have to dig it out of the mess you made of my DVD organizer." She nudged his shoulder in the direction of the pile on the side of her TV. He rolled off her lap and crawled to the pile and she got up to get plates and napkins from her kitchen. "It's called 'Serenity'." When she returned to the sitting room her DVDs were already organized alphabetically and stacked neatly on the shelf. She blinked in disbelief. Sherlock looked down at his work and replied "This just sort of... Happened..."

She shrugged, grinning as she set a plate on Sherlock's side of the coffee table, placing two slices on her own plate reaching for a bottle of lager from the case at her feet. He returned to the couch after finding the appropriate disc and inserting it into the player, and grabbed a slice of pizza, taking bites, unfettered by the convention of a plate. Molly cast a sidelong glace and he acquiesced to her silent order placing the slice on the plate she had provided and even accepted the open lager bottle she placed in his hands.

They sat watching, eating and drinking mostly in companionable silence.  Occasionally making quips and observations of the film's activities.

Two hours and six lagers later Molly was brushing tears from her eyes. "Poor Wash." Her lip trembled. Sherlock laughed.

"What's so funny?" Molly slurred slightly, tinged with a little more anger than it would normally, given that she's about three sheets to the wind.

Still laughing Sherlock caught his breath "Be-Because. You've seen this movie... Many times." He stammered, "Going by the wear on the spine of the case and the lack of rez-reese- ruh-zis-stants of the closure you must have watched this film at least... a dozen times. Not counting the...you know...all the times you saw it in the cinema...and stuff."

"Pffffff!!!!" Molly responded. "Wuh-when do I get to go to the cinema? Ha! You're having a laugh."

Sherlock laughed breathlessly. "Never!" He agreed. "Buh-Between your actual full time job then helping and cleaning up after me, it's a wonder you have time...time for anything." The last line was colored with the realization of his words. There was a pause while the realization sunk in and he had to ask, "Why do you do it, Molly?"

"Hmmm? Do what?" She asked fighting the urge to doze.

"Give so much...to me?"

"Thassa good queshon, Sherlock. Uhmm... I dunno!" She broke into laughter and he joined her, both of them giggling like simpletons. She caught her breath at the end of the laughter and paused thinking for a moment. "Well... Prolly cause, I'm happy when I'm with you. Izz nice, ya know? You're an absolute cock sometimes but you get me. Lossa people don't. Because...you know...because I'm a little weird, right?" She laughed again "I mean I-" she tried to speak through her giggles "I cut up dead people for a living! And I love it! I spent years in Uni and worked my arse off for the opportunity to basically skewer humans day in and day out!" She was breathless with laughter.

"Hey..." Sherlock started "thass not weird!...Is it?"

"Says the sociopath..."

"Oh yeah. I forgot that bit" The rich baritone of Sherlock's hearty laugh buzzed through her causing her chest to constrict at the sensation.

Sometime after the pizza had been eaten he found himself back in her lap once again. Arms linked around her leg, hardly able to keep his eyes open. "You forgot you're a sociopath?" Molly giggled her head dipped further than she meant it to as she looked down at Sherlock. Her hair brushed his shoulder, giving him a shiver.

He snorted as though he was startled from a doze. "Wha?- oh... Yeah...sometimes. Only when I'm with you."

The impact of Sherlock's words were not lost on, even the very drunk, Molly. Her heart pounded "Sherlock that's...That's so..." her thought was interrupted by the sound of his gentle snore. Sleep had finally won out. Molly followed his lead, sliding clumsily out from beneath his head, she replaced the support of her lap with a throw pillow from the floor nearby and draped an afghan over his bare shoulders.

Stumbling into her bedroom, she tripped over the clutter, falling face first into bed. She immediately dropped into a deep sleep, with barely enough foresight to wrap herself in her duvet.


	2. Chapter 2

She awoke to the heinous screech of her alarm pounding into her skull and unwelcome sunlight leaking into her bedroom from the window. She pounded her alarm indiscriminately until it stopped making noise. But found herself drifting back off to sleep. She fought the urge and bore down to push herself off the bed gracelessly and practically crawled to the bathroom to start the shower. Standing under the water, she leaned her head against the cool tiles, enjoying the contrast. 

A cloud of sweet soap scented steam puffed behind her like a cloud as she walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee.

"Some for me as well" She saw Sherlock struggle to sit up from the couch where he'd crashed the previous night. Molly startled, nearly dropping her towel

  
"Jesus, Sherlock! I forgot you were there." She fumbled with the towel making sure she was covered, then made a bee line to her bed room to get her dressing gown. She walked out seconds later, securing it around the waist.

"Ahh modesty. It's a funny thing isn't it?" Sherlock spoke, sitting up on the couch turning to face the direction of the kitchen.

"Why is that?", Molly asked groggily, shuffling back to put on the coffee pot.

"You know me to be highly observant." Molly snorted at that statement of the obvious. "You don't think I've worked out what you look like naked?"

"No. What? Why?"

Sherlock shrugged Force of habit, I suppose."

"Youve a habit of picturing people naked?" She asked casting him a questioning glance. Although it made sense, that, in Sherlock's mind, everyone lay bare to his scrutiny. "Never mind. Regardless, extrapolating isn't seeing." Molly pointed out,"You never know, people can surprise you." She busied herself scooping coffee grounds into her coffee maker and pushing a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

"Surprise me, how? By having a lower back tattoo, perhaps...?"

Molly colored, even though her back was turned to him she was sure he knew she was blushing hotly at his insinuation. She cleared her throat and ignored his question.

Sherlock rose completely from the couch and sat at her dinette. "Only thing I haven't worked out, is what it's of."

She'd long since given up asking how he knows the things he does, he got too much satisfaction out of explaining all the little clues that caused him to deduce all your secrets.

"Does it matter?" Molly asked wearily between careful sips of coffee "It's a tramp stamp. There's no such thing as a classy one." She then began cracking eggs into a pan. "How do you like your eggs?"

Sherlock was hunched over the table his head rested on his folded arms. "Poached" she heard him mumble.

"Scrambled it is then."

Sherlock looked up at her and frowned.

"I'm nursing a hangover and I'm due at the morgue today. I'm not poaching your eggs."

   
Sherlock pouted, "I thought you loved me." 

  
"Sentiment is a weakness found on the losing side." Molly quoted in her best mock-Sherlock voice.

"Where did you get that nonsense?" He asked head cradled in his arms again.

"Some genius." Molly replied.

"He sounds like an idiot."

"Come to think of it, sometimes he is."

 

* * *

 

Molly had taken her coffee black this morning, giving her unusually bad breath despite brushing just minutes before. She wasn't a particularly stylish dresser but this morning she felt warranted an even more comfortable mode of dress than she generally opted for: comfortable flats, linen drawstring pants, green tank top and she shrugged into a thin, airy wrap cardigan, tying it loosely around her natural waist. She put up her hair in a lazy half-twist and secured it with a barrette. And her thick framed black horn-rimmed glasses.

Sherlock gawped at her as she hastily exited her bed room. It didn't escape Molly's notice but she didn't feel like dealing with his criticism of her personal style at that moment.

"Molly, you er..."

"Yes I know, I slept in my contacts, I'm in a hurry and feeling a bit dodgey so I'm going with the glasses today."

"Yes of course but-"

"look, I'm running late, I've got to run if I'm going to catch the tube to Bart's." She gave him a rushed side-hug and kissed his forehead from where he was sitting in the dining area. His eyes were wide and he opened his mouth to speak again and she cut him off, "Please tidy up the rest of the mess. Don't worry about putting away the breakfast things. Don't forget to lock the door on your way out. Bye Sherlock!" She called as she slung her bag over her shoulder and rushed out.

"But Molly you've forgotten-" It was too late, she was already halfway down the steps outside her flat, out of ear shot.

 

* * *

 

She kept a brisk pace as she walked to the tube station not noticing the stares of the passersby. As usual she kept her eyes on her shoes on the tube or she may have noticed the wide eyed glances she was attracting as she reached up to grip the safety rail above her head. She closed her eyes and breathed as the car bumped along it's way toward her destination.

She felt fortunate to have caught a lift by herself and rode it all the way to the basement morgue. She flashed her ID badge at the security guard downstairs.

"Good morning Dr. Hooper!" The normally gruff guard enthused.

"Oh, uh, good morning Frank."

"You're looking...well today. Trying something different?"

"Uhm... Not really. I was just in a rush, chose to wear my glasses. But thanks, better get to work." She rushed past him caring not to linger in conversation with the usually unpleasant man.

Alone in the lab at last she set about her work, taking extra frequent coffee  breaks to compensate for how poorly she was feeling this day.

She had only been in a few hours in before DI LeStrade came in with Sherlock and John trailing him. She was leaning over the table finishing off some forms. They all stopped short looking at her not saying a word. John was the first to break the silence by clearing his throat and looking down at the floor, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. Greg's eyes were wide and staring unabashedly.

"Uhm, hullo guys. Hi John, how's Mary? How's the baby?" she directed at the doctor who seemed to be refusing to look up at her. "They're great, thanks Uhm... Molly...?"

Sherlock cut him off before he could say anything "Molly, can I speak to you privately?"

Molly quirked an eyebrow at his unusual request but simply said "Alright" as she allowed him to lead her by her elbow into the empty hallway outside.

As soon as she stepped out he closed the space between them with a single stride, standing uncomfortably close to her and leaned in to whisper in her ear while pressing something into her hand. "You forgot this in your rush this morning. I tried to tell you."

She recognized the object he was pressing into her hand was her bra and the implication of what he was telling her was punctuated by the feeling of his coat lightly brushing against her nearly bare breast. "Oh God." She blushed. "That's why everyone was so... Oh God..." She cradled her forehead in her palm in humiliation. A beat passed when another thought occurred, "Sherlock, am I wearing knickers, at least?"

He glanced down behind her and shook his head.

"Oh God!"

Sherlock couldn't help himself he burst out with that hearty rumbly laugh that reverberated through the hall.

"Shut up!"

"Come now, Molly, the reactions have been overwhelmingly positive. Maybe you should consider forgoing undergarments altogether." He continued laughing.

She stuffed the bra in the pocket of her lab coat, eyebrows knitted together in anger. "Hahahaha-OW!!!" she gave him a hard poke where she had hit him the previous day as she pushed past him to the locker room to take care of her oversight.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their comfortable amicability-turned casual work flirt begins to become less casual the more Sherlock and Molly's friendship grows. Feelings remain unspoken as the case takes a serious left turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter. I started writing this almost a year ago and I'm at the point where I'm continuing where I left off back then. Shit has officially gotten real, kids.

Sherlock walked back into the lab where Greg and John waited. "She's getting it sorted." He calmly announced.

John looked relieved, Lestrade looked disappointed. "That's a shame." Lestrade began wistfully. "I was having the most wonderful flashbacks of my secondary school literature teacher. She was much younger than the other teachers and she was a hippie. She gave a lot of hugs." He raised his eyebrows lasciviously, "Know what I mean?"

"Oh.... Kay. I cannot participate in this conversation... I have a wife and daughter at home and this conversation could quite literally be the death of me." John said "I'm going to the canteen for some coffee, anyone want anything?"

"Actually, I'll join you. I could do with the air." John and Lestrade walked out without another word.

"Black, two sugars!" Sherlock called toward their backs.

"Yep." John called back without another look and then mumbled, "as if anyone in this bloody building _doesn't_ know how Sherlock Holmes takes his coffee..." 

Molly returned moments later, wearing the garment Sherlock had delivered for her. She had her lab coat buttoned up all the way over her chest and the flush of color hadn't left her face yet. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her labored attempt at ex post facto modesty.

"Where'd Greg and John go?"

"Probably to adjust their trousers after Lestrade's suggestive recount of the hugging hippie literature teacher your little memory lapse reminded him of. Ironic that."

 "Oh God, can I die now please? Thanks for this, by the way." She gestured to her breasts which were now secured and buttressed into the bra Sherlock brought for her.

"You don't have to be embarrassed, Molly. If it's any consolation you draw more of that kind of attention than you know."

"No, that doesn't actually help, Sherlock. But I appreciate the attempt." She looked up at him and he was fighting the urge to burst out laughing again and she glowered. "This is my job, Sherlock. I'm a professional. And what those men saw cannot be unseen. Ordinary people can't delete memories like you. Now every time I see them I'm going to be worried their thinking about today."

"Well going to the trouble of buttoning your coat so high seems like a wasted effort then."

Molly colored again "Is it more awkward to keep it buttoned like this or would it be better to wear it open like normal and pretend this never happened?" 

"Hmmm... Option B, I should think."

She sighed and began undoing her lab coat buttons.

"Well... Option A is...also valid." He added, turning his head sharply.

Molly looked down. "Why, of all my bras, did you pick the one that pushes them up so high?"

"It's the one you wear when you're feeling self conscious about your breasts." The ghost of a memory from the Christmas she'd worn it. He flinched it away, not caring to revisit his guilt over his unfortunate reaction to the sight of her gift he hadn't realized was a gift for him. 

"No, it's the one I wear when I want people to notice that I have breasts." she corrected in a disparaging tone. She looked off to the side, straightening a slide on the work top just to busy herself. 

"A very compelling argument could be made that you've displayed the fact of your breast's existence rather more effectively _without_ a bra." There was a smile in his voice as he glanced over to her catching her in his periphery.

"Well it's not a thing I really want people noticing during work hours." She was fiddling with the lapels of her coat self-consciously. Sherlock scoffed and she looked at him with a questioning expression, forgetting her anxiety for a moment. "Excuse me?"

He shook his head, "Nothing it's just that it seems you want at least one person to notice during working hours." He said while smirking in that boyish way Molly found so infuriatingly attractive. Why, after all this time could he still do that to her? Who gave him the right to be so fucking adorable when she's trying to be angry at him? 

Suddenly the smile dropped away as their eyes met. He swallowed and open his mouth to speak. After a few obvious false starts he paused for a moment before practically stammering out, "Molly, really..." Sherlock's voice was low and he was stepping toward her "You're so..."

Sherlock didn't get to complete his thought because Lestrade and John were back, a tech was behind them pushing a stretcher into the morgue. Pulling the arm, he hadn't realized was reaching toward her with, down to his side with lockstep precision. 

 

* * *

 

"Molly, really... You're so..." Molly's heart thudded against her ribs. Sherlock moved so close to her she could smell that he'd not gone back to Baker Street, but rather showered at hers and had used her shampoo, he must have also brushed with the spare toothbrush he kept there for when he holed up in her flat. He'd also snuck a cigarette, she'd get onto him about it another time because this moment felt pivotal. Too important to ruin with silly trivialities.

So naturally that's when the wheels of the stretcher squeaked across the tile effectively shattering the ambience that had somehow built up around them. Whatever Molly had thought she'd seen in Sherlock's eyes the second before (tenderness? warmth?) Was gone in a literal blink.

"Ah the guest of honor has arrived. I take it this is the corpse you called me in to see?"

Molly  shoved her hands into a pair of latex gloves, steeling herself into work mode. She could (and no doubt would) take time to over analyze what Sherlock may or may not have been about to say later. They circled the stretcher as she unzipped the body bag to begin her preliminary examination.

"Female, hmm... Eastern European? I'd put her in her late teens based on her teeth and pelvis. Track marks up the arms and inflammation in the nasal passages, indicative of drug abuse. Based on the laceration and bruising around her thighs and hips I would venture to guess that our girl here was a prostitute. Only thing I'm not seeing is a cause of death."

"That's why we've called you in Sherlock." Lestrade explained. 

"Where was the body found?" Sherlock asked. 

"About 40 Kilometers from the motorway, we've no idea how she got there." Greg answered.

"Pushed out of a car?" John asked. 

"Her injuries aren't consistent with having been pushed from a moving car." Molly supplied.

"Also, she was too far from the street to have been pushed from a car." Lestrade added.

"If she's a junkie, couldn't she have just gotten high and gone on a walkabout?" John theorized once more.

"She was like that when we found her, completely starkers. No clothes anywhere near the scene. A woman walking in broad daylight naked is a thing people tend to take notice of."

Molly was still carrying out her preliminary examination when something caught her attention, Sherlock noticed half a second after and they looked at each other frantically.

Sherlock backed away from the table and called for John, gesturing for him to join Molly at her side. Pulling a pen light from her coat pocket she bent over the girl's body and pried one eyelid open with her thumb and forefinger. She squeaked in surprise and looked up to give a meaningful look to John who was immediately searching for a stethoscope. 

"My god!" He exclaimed. Molly ran to the phone hanging on the wall while Lestrade looked confused. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Molly's voice was a panicked murmur as she spoke forcefully into the phone while John continued to attend to the girl on the slab. "Yes, you heard that correctly. Get someone down here, now!"

Sherlock looked over to Lestrade and with eyes wide. "She's not dead." He answered breathlessly. 

 

* * *

 

"How could we have missed that she was still alive!?" Lestrade asked, voice full of frustration. He stood beside John while they looked at the girl, now dressed in a gown and hooked up to IV's and beeping monitors, through the glass divider. 

John shrugged. "Extremely weak heart rate and slowed respiration. It happens more often than you'd think. Even today."

Lestrade shuddered. Everyone had heard horror stories from history when coffins were exhumed to find scratch marks on the inside. Very ill people being mistaken for dead and buried alive. An anomaly many believe the legend of vampires originated. The idea that such a mistake could be made in this day in age was rather frightening.

"I'm just relieved Molly noticed before she started cutting!" Lestrade sighed.

"Of course she did!" Sherlock's voice boomed out, suddenly standing behind them, causing Lestrade and John to jump in surprise.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John admonished while Lestrade clutched at his chest, trying to catch his breath. "After the fright we just had could you at least try no sneaking about like that. You're likely to give someone a heart attack!"

Sherlock ignored the statement as he happily bounced on his toes, this case had become immensely more interesting. Although now he would have to interview a victim, rather than simply examining a corpse. There was an honesty in death Sherlock held immense respect for. The dead could not lie. In the room beyond the glass lay a young woman with secrets, secrets she may not be so willing to yield. 

"What do you think, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. 

"That maybe you should consider an aspirin regiment. I'm sure John would be willing to oversee-"

"Not about me! About the girl, you berk!" Lestrade cut him off. 

Sherlock immediately switched gears, "Won't know for sure until Molly gets back with the toxicology report. But I agree with her initial assessment. I think it's likely she's a prostitute and an addict. We're probably looking at a transaction gone wrong. It will simply come down to finding her last john. He's your culprit, obviously." He spoke with his head cocked to the side.

"Right obviously." Lestrade agreed. "Well if that's it, Sherlock why are you still here?"

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked genuinely confused.

"Find the john. Case closed, I think the yard can manage that just fine on our own when she comes to. By this time you'd usually be rushing back to Baker Street looking for something more interesting." Lestrade reasoned. John cocked his head to one side and nodded in agreement, as though it hadn't yet occurred to him that this case veered off into territory that resolutely did not interest Sherlock in the least. Which is why Sherlock could never be a Detective in any official capacity. When you worked as a functionary of law enforcement you can't just walk away from cases because you don't find them interesting. That and the paperwork. He's rubbish at paperwork. John often wondered how Sherlock managed to keep the lights on the way he seemed to avoid bookkeeping of any kind. 

"Because she was pronounced dead on the scene." Sherlock answered, as if that answered everything. 

"Yes and that medical examiner is being evaluated for that mistake." Lestrade replied. Even with the oddness surrounding her arrival to St. Bart's it was clear to Lestrade that this was the type of case they could definitely phone in. 

"It wasn't a mistake." Sherlock said, turning on his heels, facing away from the two men. "It was intentional. Someone wanted us to think she was dead."  Lestrade and John shared a look before following after Sherlock as he began to walk away.

"Why would anyone go through all that trouble?" John thought aloud. 

"To get my attention." Sherlock answered, stepping alone into the elevator at the end of the corridor. "And they have it." He said right before the doors closed with John and Lestrade on the other side.  


 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The victim tox report comes back with unusual results. More uncomfortably comfortable intimacy. And the plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been such a negligent fic writer lately. We are moving at the end of the month and I have just not been feeling especially motivated lately. So sorry, loves. Anyway I hope this chapter makes up for some of the radio silence.

"What the fuck?!" Molly murmured as she flipped open the tox report from her slightly less dead than advertised patient. "What in the actual fuck!?" She immediately takes out her phone to text Sherlock.

_Get down to the lab. Now._

_Mx_

Sherlock arrived moments after it was sent, breathless as if he'd been running. His cheeks were flushed and he was grinning boyishly. Molly had seen Sherlock like this many times. That face meant the case had become much more interesting, or to put it another way, much more difficult. Her frustration at the thought of the amount of work this meant for all of them was nearly overshadowing her shock and elation at having saved a life, rather than determining how it had expired.

"I believe you have something for me." He said, a little too gleefully for Molly's liking, holding out his hands eagerly for the report. 

"Yes, a smack if you don't stop smiling like a lunatic." She quipped, shoving the folder into his hands.

He began opening the folder, but after a beat his face fell and he snapped it shut without looking at the report inside. "Wait- Lunatic?!"

"Yes, Sherlock. I've had one of the greatest shocks of my life and you're strolling about like a schoolboy in a forest made of tits. There's a girl in there, young, foreign, probably trafficked. By some miracle she's still alive, after what must've been a monstrous ordeal, and I would just prefer you'd concentrate on finding the bastards that did this to her instead of reveling in the novelty of it all. Now if you please, I've highlighted the significant findings." Molly gestured to the folder, a bit winded from getting all of that out in a single breath.

He held her gaze searchingly for a beat, finding no true anger in her eyes, only frustration and shock, Sherlock turned his attention to the tox report. Even without the highlighting, the unusual results would have blared at him like a search light.

"My God!" He gasped, brows making a break for his hairline, eyes wide with surprise, mouth agape. In a second he trained the corners of his mouth down away from the approximation of a smile they were forming into.

"Right?" Molly agreed. "What the fuck is this?", he could tell by her voice her nerves were fraying.

He couldn't contain his amusement now, Sherlock reared his head back and laughed a deep full-throated laugh, before hopping in the air and turning on his heels to leave. So much for dignified stoicism.

"Sherlock! What!?-"

Molly was cut off by Sherlock crossing the distance between them in just a few long strides. "Oh Molly! What would I do without you?" He grasped both sides of her face and pulled her in for a brief kiss landed squarely on her lips. 

"Uhm..." was all Molly could manage before he leaned in for another, less brief, kiss. She blushed fiery red when she thought she felt his tongue brush across her bottom lip. The quiet wet smacking seemed to echo in the acoustics of the lab. 

Before she could register what had happened enough to respond, he'd pulled her into an embrace, resting his chin atop her head, still shaking slightly with mirthful laughter.

"Voodoo, Molly!" Sherlock announced as if that were the answer to everything. He landed another kiss on her forehead, then whirled toward the exit, flipping his coat collar up.

"The truth is out there!" Sherlock chuckled, almost skipping out of the lab with obscene glee.

Alone with the file and the taste of Sherlock on her lips she fell dumbfounded onto her office chair, blinking hazily, before turning to her laptop. She opened a browser and began a search: voodoo+tetrodotoxin. 

The next hour or so was filled with some rather interesting reading.

 

 

* * *

 

The creak of the office door resounded, followed by the tinkling of the tray that carried Mycroft's lunch. He was on a strict meal plan set by his nutritionist. He'd only started his new diet the week before and he already hated it. But he had lost half a stone, something he tried very hard to remind himself of as his PA began pouring a pitcher of green smoothie into a glass. It made the most unappetizing plopping sound as small bits of veg joined the liquid being poured.

On the tray beside the glass Anthea had lined up a number of supplements, and for the main course he was to be treated to some kind of tofu and quinoa nightmare. In that moment he'd compiled a very long, very detailed list of despicable things he would be willing to do for an enormous plate of veal osso bucco with black truffle risotto and an entire German chocolate cake washed down with a bottle of port. Ah yes, and finish it off with a filthy, noxious, high-tar cigarette that would make his coat reek for days.

Although binging on red meat, carbs, alcohol and tar sounded like a perfectly wonderful way to die, dying hadn't quite made it to his to-do list just yet. Concessions had to be made as medical science had not yet cracked immortality, and countries don't just run themselves after all. Oh how utterly ridiculous it is when they try!

No Mycroft had every intention of cultivating his little kingdom for some years yet. Picking up the first of the vitamins on the tray he braced himself for his first sip of the green smoothie. He tossed the pill toward the back of his throat, gulping down a mouthful of smoothie, swallowing harshly in order to avoid gagging. Blech kale! Far too much kale!

In the midst of his gagging he missed Sherlock creeping into his study, silently. Just as he had done so many times in their childhood, is it any wonder he now snoops on a professional level?

 "I don't much care for kale either." Sherlock announced haughtily. "It's become despicably fashionable." He took no time making himself comfortable, stretching out in one of Mycroft's leather seats, legs propped up on the back of his desk.

"Hipster." Mycroft sneered, taking another tentative sip of the smoothie."I take it you received my message."

Sherlock blinked, unwilling to cut to the proverbial chase without giving his older brother a bit of hell first. So he redirected.

"Thea's not happy with you, clearly. Judging by the franklyspiteful amount of kale in that beverage. Haven't punished her enough yet, have you?"

"We are not discussing this.", Mycroft dismissed annoyance quite apparent.

"She's one of your best people. She's wasted cooped up in this dungeon, fetching and carrying for you."

"She's a loose cannon, a liability. I can't allow her to return to field work until I am certain she'll-"

"She'll what? Never die? Oh brother dear, what is it you love to say? Caring is not an advantage.", Sherlock volleyed derisively, enjoying making his brother eat his words far too much. 

"No it is not. But it is, most unfortunately, non-optional. Now that you've registered your complaint may we please get back to the task at hand? And, in future, you'd do well to remember that how I treat my own daughter is no business of yours." Mycroft's impeccable mask of politeness was a more effective indicator of his annoyance than if he had actually spit in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock flinched at the thought. Assessing his brother's expression and choosing to let the topic go, for now. "Right well, I've done my part. Message received. I'm here. What do you want?"

"Don't be obtuse, Sherlock. I'm certain by now you've seen the body." Mycroft retorted, starting in on the remaining supplements, lined up like a firing squad.

"You mean the living breathing body of a kidnapped, teenaged, prostitute almost fully conscious at Barts? Or was there another body I was meant to have seen?"Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

"Oh, so she's alive? Hmm." Was Mycroft's casually interested response. 

Sherlock's eyes nearly rolled out of his head. "I just want to hear you say out loud that you kidnapped and drugged a trafficked teenage girl to get my attention. Just for posterity." 

Mycroft pulled a face of disgust at his brother's accusation. "Please, Sherlock. You know I dislike getting my hands dirty. No, that girl's misfortune came by someone else's machinations. Machinations that were thwarted by my own when my people intercepted a shipment bound for the US. They did their best to insure you would get first look at the cargo."

"Cargo?" Sherlock asked. 

"I trust you've had a look at her tox report? You know what was in her bloodstream. Surely you have a theory." 

"I have a pretty solid theory." Sherlock agreed and added, "I just don't understand. How exactly do you fit in all of this? You wouldn't bother if this were any old human trafficking case. No this has your stink all over it... what have you done, Mycroft?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I made Anthea Mycroft's daughter. Maybe it's weird but I can't shake the feeling that she's related to them and I just wanted to explore that angle.


End file.
